


Miss Jackson

by Tonizzao3



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Character Death, Constant Horniness, F/M, Magical Women, Minor Violence, powerful woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:04:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonizzao3/pseuds/Tonizzao3
Summary: He has to find her. To feel, taste, her again.





	Miss Jackson

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Miss Jackson](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/423344) by Panic! At The Disco. 



> Inspired by P!ATD, Enjoy~~~~

He wakes up in a startle. Looking around panicked, he calms down when he sees he’s still in the musty, green-painted motel room from last night. He looks down at himself seeing his button up hanging loosely on his torso and his pants on and buttoned. Rubbing his head he scrunches his face confused. Laying back his legs hang halfway off the bed for his feet to be planted on the floor. Closing his eyes he reminisces last night. He can still taste it all over his tongue, and still feel it all over his body every inch of him tingling.

 

He remembers it all. The way she straddled him the moment they got in the room. The way she pushed him down on the bed taking full control. She could have him at her absolute mercy and he wouldn’t fight. He’s not use to being the one controlled, but she was _something_. Every movement, word, and breath of his was owned by her and he didn’t argue. He would do anything she asked. She had him go into some weird positions and she would laugh. He still didn’t get angry. Whatever she wanted he would give. He would do.

 

Thinking about her his pants start to get tight. He’s not even thinking about the juicy part yet and he moans out, blood sprinting down. His hands run up and down his torso and he remembers. The tingling sensation increasing. She did this too. She only unbuttoned his shirt. Never took it off, said she needed something to grip to move him wherever she needed him to go. He was in absolute bliss when they finally started to rock.

 

Hand reaching down, he palms the outside of his jeans. Arching his back he groans too loudly it sounds inhuman. His legs raise and move back down to towards the floor as he shifts under his touch and the memories that flood in. He remembers how they rocked softly with her on top and him under her arching and moaning with every ride keeping his hands off her like she ordered. He wanted to touch her but knew it would probably stop the night. He ended up gripping the cover in every way he could, his knuckles staying white. His body rolled side to side as much as he could trying to fight every urge he got. He needed to last. He wanted to last. Yet, he spilled over a little too early, but he wasn’t going to let that ruin their night. Hoping there wasn’t going to be consequences or any intrusion, he flipped them over and started to rock harder. He got her moaning loudly and scratching his back in seconds. Sure he would have a fucked back in the morning with a rawness that would last well into the week, but he didn’t care. He wanted to give her what she deserved. After a few moments he gave her, her own euphoric release as he spilled over a second time.

 

He was so tired he doesn’t remember the next moments too clearly. She mumbled something hopping up and putting her clothes back on.  Breathing heavy unable to move or think clearly he watched her leave out the back door. Then he woke up here. Again.

 

He slowly comes out of the memories, sitting up even slower. His pants are damp and he grunts. He spilled over at the memory, but he doesn’t mind. He has to find her. To feel her again. To feel _that_ again. The feeling he got during their rocking night was otherworldly. He scrambles for his phone searching through his recents. When he finds nothing that seems like it’s connected to her he curses, throwing the phone in the floor. Defeated he flops back on the bed. Her presence still on his skin and heat rushes downward again. Her kisses and teeth trace ghostly down his torso. His thighs burn and constrict. There’s a pit in his stomach so deep he feels his abdomen tighten so much his organs may become strangled. He props himself up on his elbows eyeing the bathroom door. Tilting his head his eyes trace every inch of the shower that he can see in the mirror.

 

Cursing he flops back down. He trades a cold shower for the memories again. He loses himself at the thought of being inside of her. He spills over easily, completely untouched this time, his arms spread while his hands grip each side of the bed tightly. Wincing he convulses more than any other time he’s spilled. Now the whole front of his pants are ruined. Shaking his head he knows he didn’t bring another pair. Sighing long he stands adjusting his pants to find a more comfortable way to wear the heaviness. He blesses himself for wearing black, for you couldn’t see, only feel the heavy dampness that lay on his thighs. Taking a step he freezes as a breeze kisses only his cheek. Slowly he turns his head until his eyes catch on a scene. There's a painting behind the TV, but there's a scene that strikes a chord in his heart.

 

The scene feels, _smells_ , familiar. His organ twitches in between him, but he's not feeling hard. It just all feels too familiar. He glances in the mirror at the bed then back to the scene. His stomach tightens and his face hardens. Racing out to the old hand-me-down car, his heart starts beating irregularly. Breath becoming thin as he breathes through gritted teeth and pursed lips. The motel room door is left open when the car backs out and screeches into acceleration. He doesn't know where he's going but he trusts his hands will get him to where his heart desires.

 

The lights of the shops and street blend together, eyes darting around frantically. He turns and turns and turns and turns. Going down street after street feeling lost yet found. Teeth keep biting his lips trying to remove the tingling. The feeling of her on them makes them go numb and aching with anticipation. _I need_ , he bites, _what the fuck was that_ , he smacks the wheel gripping tighter, knuckles going white, _please have mercy on me_. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. He grumbles. Or groans. Maybe it was a growl. He’s not sure, but it was an angry sound. He’s not angry, only frustrated. Soon the city leaves him and he’s driving along the endless fields, most dried and dead. The city no longer distracting his mind, he starts squirming uncomfortably. His pants seem too tight and the squirming doesn’t help his throbbing cock. The fabric squeezes and rubs against him in all the wrong and right ways. He remembers her hand and he has to pull over. Still gripping the wheel he throws his head back against the seat yelling. His breaths come out ragged and heavy.

 

He can’t catch his breath, even when he gets out and starts walking in the field. His walk is so disoriented he looks drunk. He’s only drunk on the memories that keep flooding into every crease of his brain. The field is so dead it reminds him of a desert with sprouts of weeds here or there. The dirt speckles his shiny black dress shoes, and the cold makes him shiver. He hopes the cold can help tame his unruly dick, but it doesn’t help. The cold shoots weirdly down the inside of the front of his pants and he’s on his knees, his pants almost bursting from his heated organ. Groaning he puts his head down in the dirt burying his hands as deep as the grip can allow. Dirt clings to most strands of his wet hair and his sweat slicked forehead. Yelling again, “HAVE MERCY ON ME!” he punches the dirt, slumping over he whimpers being too frustrated to please his throbbing pants.

 

“Aww, what a poor sight,” he snaps up, sitting back on his legs, dirt cascading down his face from his hair. He stares into the crisp blue eyes. Those sharp eyes that commanded with every twitch and squint of them. Even when nothing is said, like now, he wants to bow down and take every word that would be said. He looks away from the eyes and trails down. It’s her. He knows. Her attire is _dramatically_ different from last night. Last night she wore a bodysuit with fishnets over it. Long gloves that came up to her elbows, and heavy makeup only around the eyes to give an alluring mask look. Everything was black.

 

Now she wears a long gown. It’s still black, but has red jewels following the bends and folds of the dress. It’s not skin tight but tight enough. He knows her curvature and sees the dress doesn’t hardly show any of it. There’s no sleeves, revealing her thin toned arms. The shoulders of the dress have a higher protrusion. The dress itself makes her look like royalty. Too royal. He thinks about why she would ever with him. He looks back to her face and sees the chains draping across every protruding bone, a couple long enough grazing her neck and chest. His eyes stare hard at her neck, lips going dry and his never endless hard-on getting harder. He tries to hide his uncomfortable shifting looking at her eyes again. She’s traded the gaudy makeup for an entrancing mask. Her hair is as long and dark as he remembered. He doesn’t remember it being this curly but then again he doesn’t remember much of last night. Only the soft to hard rocking. Feathers sprout from the sides of the mask and more red jewels dance under the eye holes. It makes her gaze even more sharp, he thinks, and it feels like there a knife in the center of his chest. His hands grip his thighs more. He wishes she would speak again. His throat is too tight, but also too afraid to say anything.

 

Then she smirks. She continues staring with the smirk and he can feel her eyes everywhere. His skin tingles where her eyes land and he suddenly wants her hands around his throat choking him into euphoria. Heat follows everywhere her eyes do. Her gaze meets his neck and there’s two burning holes. Then, fire trails going down his torso, his navel tingling. When her eyes reach his harden pants it twitches. Her smirk deepens almost turning into a broad smile. She keeps staring. He keeps twitching, his arm muscles screaming from how tense he is.

 

She chuckles and coos, “what a mess,” kneeling to meet the same eye level as him. Reaching out she touches his face moving her hand to the side of his head. His face follows not wanting to let her touch go. “Stop I’m trying to clean you silly,” her touch gentle as she brushes the dirt from his face and hair. He wants that gentle touch to course down his body. Then she holds his cheek staring deeply in his eyes. “You’re pathetic.” She scolds.

 

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. He goes to speak but her finger on his lips prevent anything from happening. She continues talking, tracing the inside of his thigh, “I take pity on men like you. Well,” she breathes out a laugh, “not pity. I find men like you interesting. You think you can go around taking advantage of others. So, you call in an escort or prostitute, whichever _you_ call it, and think you can make her tired enough to skip out on the bill. What kind of chum of a person are you?” Her fingers are around his throat now squeezing lightly. Closing his eyes his head leans back slightly wishing she would squeeze harder. He feels her lips near his ear as she continues, “that when I venture around. Men like you are so dessssssperate for something you can’t have. I appear in your life when you are most desperate so I can also have what I need. You give in easily because, well, _you_ called on me. Then, I arrived and gave you a night to never forget, of course I get something in return. I take quite a lot of your energy, or life source, whatever you wanna call it and leave you with a sense of,” her fingertips brush his crotch, and he shudders, “me. Enough to last a lifetime.” She kisses his ear then stands gracefully.

 

He feels the desperation in his eyes as they stare at her, yet she has nothing in hers. She doesn’t care. He knows she won’t do anything. He wants something done about his swollen self but can’t find himself touching, or pleading. Grunting he hangs his head staring at the dirt. Staring at his dick. He keeps getting the feeling of wanting to shift but shakes the thought. If he did his tight pants might make him spill over in front of her, and he would be embarrassed until the day he died.

 

“I can give you release.” his eyes snap back up to hers. Her hand is thumbing her hip. No, the thing on her hip. Looking closer he sees it’s a sword. He gulps, throat becoming dry as he looks back into her eyes. They’ve gone dark and almost seem black. She tilts her head. She needs an answer.

 

“What is it?” He chokes out in a broken voice.

 

“It’s release. You just,” she smirks thumbing her weapon, “go to an amazing place receiving a lot of release.” Her face is stern again and he looks down between them.

 

“Okay.” His answer clear and he hears the sword being released from the sheath. She raises it high, showing all her elegant strength running through her body. He wants to touch one last time, but instead, opens his mouth one last time, “just one last question.” He pleads.

“Miss Jackson,” she replies bringing her might down, his world going black.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments or come talk to me on twitter! @toniztwit


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